


III: to top it all off

by redtoblack



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Beast (The Magicians), Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bottom Eliot Waugh, Established Relationship, Face-Fucking, Fucking Todd, Halloween, M/M, Quentin Coldwater's Canonical Oral Fixation, Top Quentin Coldwater
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:34:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27961607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redtoblack/pseuds/redtoblack
Summary: Quentin, as a general rule, was not a big fan of parties. He showed up, he hung on Eliot’s arm for a bit, drank something fruity, and either escaped upstairs or sat in the nook with a friend. But something told him this one was shaping up to be something special.
Relationships: Margo Hanson & Eliot Waugh, Quentin Coldwater & Alice Quinn, Quentin Coldwater & Margo Hanson & Eliot Waugh, Quentin Coldwater & William "Penny" Adiyodi & Kady Orloff-Diaz, Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 24
Kudos: 84
Collections: Seven Times Quentin gave Eliot that Good Dick





	III: to top it all off

**Author's Note:**

> Lots of thank yous to shockvaluecola and Rubick for alpha/beta/long discussions-ing, TheAudity for the fantastic moodboard, freneticfloetry for the utter brilliance that is Eliot's costume, and all the Peaches & Plums folks for spurring this on! <3
> 
> I know, I know, we're past Halloween season. But hey, it's always Halloween somewhere, right?

Quentin, as a general rule, was not a big fan of parties. He showed up, he hung on Eliot’s arm for a bit, drank something fruity, and either escaped upstairs or sat in the nook with a friend. Typically that friend was one of the Fillory books, but sometimes he’d get Eliot, Julia, Margo, Alice, and on occasion even — okay so he actually did generally have a good time at parties. Sue him, it was a recent development.

Regardless, this one was shaping up to be something special. He’d helped Eliot and Margo with planning, the whole week leading up to Halloween filled with decorations when he should have been practicing for PA, writing his essay for Ethics of Emotional Magic about fear charms (which, as per his conclusion, were fine as long they were undertaken voluntarily.) (They were putting theirs in the meringues.), and very specifically avoiding the closet of the room he shared with Eliot.

Apparently that last one was very important. The information as to _why_ was apparently on a “need-to-know basis, Q, and you simply (a kiss and pat to the cheek) do not need to know.” Not like he couldn’t, you know, _infer._ Closet, Halloween party, strict orders not to plan his own costume — not to mention the way he caught Eliot giggling with Margo and Jules one time over his laptop, and their collective cageyness about the incident afterwards.

El obviously had _plans_ for their costumes, it wasn’t like, metacomp to figure out.

So Quentin had settled for a side-eye at the unassuming closet door whenever he entered the room, and putting on a show of frustration every time Eliot cheerfully told him to turn around so he could get dressed. He’d find out at the party, and it wasn’t like he had any great ideas anyway.

He _had_ been planning on being Indiana Jones this year, but, god, like, a guy forgets to re-up his wards _one time_ before going to bed, and now there was no _way_ he was about to wear that costume anywhere Penny might show up.

Halloween was considered a holiday of sorts at Brakebills, apparently, though less the “yay let’s have fun” kind and more a general sentiment of “usually at least one person fucks up and summons something dangerous so the faculty are on high alert, enjoy your day off and don’t be that person, you little shits.”

The morning of the 31st, all preparations that could be done ahead of time had been. The Cottage was already layered with centuries of anti-summoning, dimension-stabilizing, and general _keep us from destroying school property and ourselves, please and thank you_ enchantments; Quentin, Alice, and Julia had refreshed a few weak spots the day before, just to be safe. Quentin was walking the inside perimeter of the building, munching on a piece of toast and rechecking their work.

He paused outside Margo’s door, toast halfway to his mouth, when Eliot’s laugh sounded from within. He’d feel weird about listening in, probably, if he hadn’t caught the both of them doing it to him so many times.

“...yes, he’s gonna love it, I’m telling you. Quit fussing and finish my goddamn foot massage, these heels are gonna be murder.”

A muffled sigh. “I know. You really must be careful with your Achilles, Bambi.”

There was silence for a few long moments, long enough that Quentin nearly drew away to continue his rounds, but then:

“You’re still thinking about it. I can hear that shit. Spit it out.”

“I think I just...really want him to like it. We’ve been building this up all week, and I want — I don’t want it to be disappointing.”

Quentin’s toast hand lowered slowly to his side.

“God, you’re a fucking marshmallow.”

“Bitch, you like it.”

And Quentin — well, he could finish checking the spellwork later. He wasn’t about to hear _that_ and just, what, keep walking, keep eating his cold toast?

That is, he _was_ going to keep eating the toast. It was basically the same cold as it was hot.

But he was _not_ going to keep walking. Was the point.

A tentative rap of his knuckles got an answering, “That you, Baby Q? Come on in, you can do my other foot.”

He opened the door gently and leaned against it from the inside, hesitating on the threshold of Margo and Eliot’s whole _thing_ when they were alone. It was like a movie scene, because who actually _does this_ in real life, who just sits around with their best friend in bed wearing lingerie, eating grapes and Cheetos from silver bowls, which — yep, there was also a joint hanging delicately from Margo’s other hand — while they massage your feet with like. Rose water lotion or whatever that bottle was. Probably cost about as much as Quentin’s entire wardrobe. (And just as probably stolen.)

Every time, it was still a little uncertain, a little weird that they’d want anyone to interrupt. More so, that they’d specifically want...him. But it was easier for Quentin to accept than it had been at the start, easier than it had been a week ago, even. Insecurities still hung thick like cobwebs in the corners of his mind, they’d probably be there slowly collecting dust for his whole life, but the larger ones were getting lovingly bashed out of the way by the plastic broomhandle of friendship.

And this time, Eliot was nervous about disappointing _him._ Quentin, well, he wouldn’t stand for it. He finished his toast in a few bites and brushed his fingers on his jeans, boosting off the door to approach the bed.

Eliot kept both hands moving steadily over Margo’s arch in his lap, but his eyes lit up, face tipped for a kiss as Quentin crawled over, and _mmhm, hello._

Once their lips parted with a performative smack to make Margo roll her eyes (success), Quentin settled on the bed and immediately found himself with a foot wiggling in his lap and the bottle of lotion tossed to his side. He got to work as Eliot asked thoughtfully, “You were eating it cold again, weren’t you?”

“I’m telling you, it’s the same cooled down. It’s just bread and butter.”

Eliot didn’t look up from his task, and his voice was mild, but there was — an unsettledness to it. “No Quentin, it’s _soggy_ bread and butter. I honestly don’t understand why you always keep eating after your food stops being good. If it’s not what you wanted, there’s nothing wrong with getting rid of it.”

 _Ah._ It was like this today. Well, sure. Quentin could play too.

“I do that _because_ —” he ducked his head to catch Eliot’s eye, and yeah, there was that wobbly trace of vulnerability before he covered it up with a smile — “I still like it. Even when it’s not perfect, even when it doesn’t get everything right. It’s still what I want.”

There. Sealed with a kiss. Put that on your bread and eat it.

“Oh,” Eliot said, blinking at him for a second. For all that he called Margo _Bambi,_ sometimes El was just as suited to the nickname, fluttering something soft in Quentin’s chest. Making him wanna wrap him in a cozy hug and text a bunch of frowny faces about how cute he was, even when frustratingly prickly.

Margo was grinning as Quentin settled back into place. She puffed a small cloud of sweet smoke towards him, stretching appreciatively at the first press of his lotioned fingers against her heel. “Nice play, Coldwater. You pick up on that all by yourself?”

He shrugged, lopsided. “I may have been listening at the door. Just a _little,_ don’t worry, that’s all I heard.”

Margo and Eliot looked at each other for a moment, then threw their heads back for a cackle and a laugh, respectively. Leaning over Margo’s ankle, Eliot pressed his lips briefly to Quentin’s temple. “Oh, darling, we’ll make a spymaster of you yet.”

“But first you’re gonna want to stop immediately admitting to eavesdropping on people. Espionage is about subtlety and timing, you know,” Margo pointed out, and crunched on a Cheeto.

Warmth in his chest, Quentin nodded seriously and said, “That was lesson number one.” She gave a pleased hum in response.

His hands were over-lotioned and busy, so Quentin leaned forward with an open mouth, hoping Margo would get the hint and feed him. If the heat flushing up the side of his neck was any indication, his smile probably came out embarrassed, but it’s not like that would be uncommon, so. He chose to allow it.

And the immediate validation was nice, seeing her light up with a delighted grin, Eliot’s sturdy laugh at his side. Margo held up a grape, rolling it delicately between the painted tips of her thumb and middle finger.

“You want this?” she teased, and faked him out, nearly placing her joint between his lips instead before he ducked out of the way. Quentin found himself giggling — god, she was scary, but she was also _fun._

Another back and forth with him chasing then avoiding her fingers, and the joint suddenly flew from her grasp to settle in the corner of Eliot’s mouth. He took in both of their surprised looks with a performatively demure shrug. “I mean, it was being offered.”

Quentin opened his mouth again at Margo, raising his eyebrows expectantly. She shook her head and popped the grape into his mouth, waiting for him to finish before providing a second one. They were the perfect ripeness, which, considering the fact that they hadn’t been shopping in a week, probably meant he was ingesting some preservation magic. (Worth it though.)

Margo leaned back against her pillows with a contented sigh. “You boys are lucky Mama isn’t stingy with her treats. Now let’s wrap this up, party clock’s ticking.”

Quentin shared a look with Eliot. It wasn’t _their_ idea to throw in a multi-stage foot massage the morning of a big production.
    
    
        
    
    _
    ) \
     . ' ` -- ` ' . 
    ~~~     /     ^   ^     \     ~~~
    \    \/\/\/    /
    ' ------ '

Much like fish should probably resign themselves to spending their lifetimes in water, Quentin was learning more and more that once you _started_ living a life that included a healthy amount of human connection, it never really _stopped,_ and managed to work its way into like every situation. The bread he ate was the air he breathed was the bed he slept in, or something like that. Turned out, it was nice when things were good, but it was actually even better when shit went wrong, because you just couldn’t get out of having people around to support you. Crazy but, apparently, true.

(Well, unless you were a _flying_ fish, which Quentin was pretty sure he didn’t qualify for. In fact, last time he took one of those “What Kind of Fish Are You” quizzes, he’d gotten goldfish. So.)

This was Quentin’s fault, really. They’d had a good few hours before the party was set to start, and it fully should have been more than enough time to get all the last-minute preparations finished and still take some breaks for, um, fun. So when Todd asked, _Hey, Eliot, can I make the Magician’s Brew this year?,_ Eliot had been rather preoccupied with Quentin’s tongue in his mouth, leaning against the kitchen counter, waist locked between Quentin’s knees, and he’d absently replied, _‘S long as you aren’t gonna make it in here._

The special Halloween beverage involved several advanced gastronomic enchantments, which El really liked to brag about, so of course Quentin had heard all about its every magical property. Including the fact that it, well, literally exploded when handled improperly, so — Todd’s attempt had gone about as well as anyone would have predicted.

Now there was a huge mess to clean up in the side room, and suddenly it was an all-hands-on-deck situation to open the Cottage doors on time. Margo went right to work with her home-brew cleaning charms, enlisting Jules’ Knowledge Kid Brain for help when the pomegranate juice wouldn’t come out of the carpet, and didn’t stop scolding Todd for a moment up until the door shut them all out of sight. At Eliot’s request, called from where he was putting the fear meringues in the oven, Quentin headed upstairs to knock on Alice’s door.

“Who is it?” came her sharp voice from inside.

“Quentin, sorry to interrupt but —”

The door opened unexpectedly, air whooshing past Quentin’s face where he had poorly chosen to lean against the frame. Alice was part-way in costume, wearing light makeup and a baby blue corset dress with black lace trim. A few locks of hair were in artificial waves, a curling iron resting against the door in one hand.

“There’s a planning emergency, isn’t there? What happened?” Alice didn’t wait for a response, whisking around to disappear into her bathroom. “Margo told me something always goes wrong, but she insisted I should get ready anyway. I _said_ I’d be needed.”

Already back in the doorway, now sans curling iron, she tucked a wide blond twist behind one ear and leaned forward on the toes of her Mary Janes. “So what’s up?”

Quentin blinked. First of all, _Margo_ said —? That was new.

“Uh, Todd tried to make the Magician’s Brew.”

Alice quirked an eyebrow, deep and relatable incredulity all over her face as Quentin continued. “Margo and Julia are taking care of it, but I could use your help with the atmospheric enchantments since they’re busy?”

She nodded decisively, already pushing past him through the door and down the stairs.

When the dusky mood lighting was set, which, thank _god_ he had asked for help because her phosphoromancy made it like 200 times easier than the spellwork he would’ve had to do to get such a stable effect, and they’d added some layers of drifting fog and mini lightning storms, Alice went to go check on a very frustrated Margo, leaving Quentin to do the rest of the physical setup.

He frowned at the furniture of the main room, trying to remember what Margo had said about _optimal flow_ before giving in and looking at the paper diagram she’d sketched for him. The piano was getting moved to the back room, along with the banjo and all the accordions. The foosball table would stay but it needed some illusion work to look like zombies vs. mummies, kicking around a tiny skull instead of a soccer ball, and a slight variation on the circumstances to take care of the pool table. The couches were getting moved _just so_ to “open up the space,” god, his telekinesis wasn’t nearly good enough to make this easy. He grimaced.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but do you...need...some help?”

Quentin paused. And turned around, and Penny was indeed there in the doorway, that had indeed been Penny’s voice, the look on his face a perfect match to how he’d sounded.

“Um?” Quentin looked down at the map in his hand, and around the room. He definitely could use the help. But — “This is. Unexpected?”

“This room is leaking anxiety all the way across campus, only an asshole wouldn’t give you guys a hand,” Penny said, his arms crossed stiff over his chest. The door behind him opened to let Kady out, a hazy pink dust cloud that looked like a tiny tornado briefly visible over her shoulder as Margo’s offended voice came through loud and clear ( _and_ Jesus, _Todd, I thought we’d been over this at Ibiza, you do not touch anything that’s going anywhere near my mouth_ ), and Kady thunked Penny on the back.

“Yeah, so actually _lend_ a _hand,_ idiot. Margo filled me in, mostly,” she said to Quentin, holding out a hand for the room diagram. “Penny can do the illusion work, and with our combined telekinesis the furniture will be no problem.”

It wasn’t, and before long the main space was, apparently, optimized to some mystery standard for open space vs. seating area and flow of foot traffic. The last few changes would have to wait, like moving the instruments, since that would require going into the Mess Room and, as Kady informed him, no one who wasn’t helping was being allowed into the Mess Room, on threat of being lumped in with Todd.

Kady and Penny had left for upstairs without an indication of when or whether they were coming back, so Quentin moved on to the music, setting up the enchantment to play Eliot’s playlist from his ancient iPod throughout the bottom floor of the Cottage. Thankfully, no one had arrived yet — they might actually do this on time.

With a final button press, eerie music engulfed the downstairs floor, and Quentin listened for a moment to lower the volume with a series of snaps — and then everything in the main room was ready for guests. Should he try to help with the last of the cleanup in the other room?

Probably not, honestly. For his own sake. Few things were worth getting yelled at by Margo in crisis mode.

Um, aside from that, the only thing left was the kitchen, which — which. Which he had been supposed to be helping with, because Margo and Todd were supposed to be doing the rest, so El had been stuck with it all by himself.

Quentin set the iPod out of the way and hurried into the kitchen, automatically and immediately smiling like a fool at the sight of Eliot in an apron, sleeves rolled to the elbow, a smear of icing bold on his chin.

“How’s it going in here?” he asked, trying not to startle the process. Eliot tossed a glance and a smile over his shoulder, carefully slicing a pan of something orange and purple.

“Oh, you know, just doing the work of at least two people without any extra time, but because I’m very talented, it’s almost done. What about out there? And could you grab me that piping bag?”

Quentin complied. “We’re all done, except for whatever’s happening with the, um,” he waved a hand in the general direction of the closed-off room, “incident. You should come take a look though, I think the rest really came out the way we wanted.”

Straightening to spin the dish of, oh wow, they were rice krispie treats, Quentin’s boyfriend _made rice krispie treats,_ Eliot just smiled, sweet and open, the way that seemed to be coming easier to him these days. “I think I’ll wait. The picture won’t be complete until our guests have arrived and the both of us are in costume. Besides,” he added, slipping into a more intimate tone the same way he stepped into Quentin’s space, “I trust you.”

Kissing Eliot was always wonderful, and being kissed by Eliot just like this, his messy hands held daintily out to either side and no point of contact other than his lips, lest Quentin get covered in confectionary debris, was somehow as intimate as anything. How did Eliot make him feel so _safe,_ cocooned in hugs, like his feet had never been so aware of gravity’s gentle press, with just the one point of contact? Of course, more touching would be _better._ No matter what it was being compared to, touching Eliot was always better.

Quentin paused to chew on his lip, considering, as he got the sudden urge to tip the kiss into the territory of indulgence. He _was_ right about to go change his clothes, so — it wouldn’t matter, would it, if he got a little messy.

Fingers tangling in the ties of Eliot’s apron, he pulled until they were pressed together front to front, flour and chocolate and icing and all. The sparkle in Eliot’s eyes (like they literally _sparkled_ how was this Quentin’s life) as he looked down at Quentin, gaze fixed on his until Quentin let his eyes slide shut and focused on the warmth of Eliot’s lips against his, body against his, slight scratch of stubble against his. Mmhm. This was so _nice._

With a quiet moan, Eliot opened to suck on Quentin’s lower lip, dart out his tongue in velvet strokes. An answering sound escaped Quentin’s throat, and he found himself melting even as a crackle of attention flashed down through his hips. _Surely,_ as he reached to cup Eliot’s jaw, rocking up on his toes to lick into the sugared heat of his mouth, _surely a few more minutes wouldn’t hurt anything._

A loud, pointed clearing of a throat came from directly behind him, dashing that ship on a rocky shore. Margo stood — not even two feet away, Jesus, lips pursed and tension clearly channeled into a single finger that was _tap-tap_ ping away on her cocked hip.

“The Magician’s Brew is all cleaned up, not that you two would care about anything taking place outside of each other’s throats. Q, the room looks great, and El, it smells like Aphrodite’s pussy in here. Keep up the good work, but make it snappy, and I said _keep_ it up, not _get_ it up, capisce?” she finished with a sweet tone that only those who knew her would have recognized as patronizing (but those who _knew_ her would hear the actual thread of affection running under it, and Quentin was somehow one of those people). He nodded quickly with his head resting on Eliot’s chest, feeling as Eliot did the same.

But behind Eliot’s back, the knot of his apron wasn’t tied very tight, it’d be so easy to just, give it a _little_ tug, and what’s a belt buckle in the face of determination...

“Good boys. Now I’m going to make a replacement batch while Julia finishes up with the furniture. We’ve got twenty minutes, people,” Margo said, breezing past them towards the far end of the kitchen where her apron was hanging up.

Twenty minutes? Quentin only needed, like, five. Ten at the most.

He frowned petulantly up at Eliot, who was stepping away, out of reach, stooping to press a kiss that was over far too quick against the side of Quentin’s mouth. “We’ll take care of the rest, I want you to have enough time to get ready. Go on upstairs,” he told Quentin with a frosting-covered nudge to the elbow. “I set out your things.”

His annoyance melted away into something rich and sweet, sugar under Eliot’s blowtorch. There would be other, admittedly more convenient times to suck El off in the kitchen, and he _was_ excited to finally know what all the fuss had been about.

“I can finally see it, huh?”

“I think you’re gonna like it.”

“Well, I’m going to.”

“Well, you will.”

“Well, I’m gonna vomit in our only punch bowl if you don’t get a fucking move on,” Margo contributed. So Quentin got a fucking move on, squeezing Eliot’s shoulder before heading out of the kitchen and through the gloomy lair of the downstairs — the kitchen was so cozy and bright he’d managed to forget the eerie vibes waiting outside the doorway, but a satisfied little shiver went up his spine as he stepped out into the artificial foggy night — then straight up the stairs to his and Eliot’s room.

There was a medium-sized black box sitting on the bed, one Quentin recognized as what used to hold El’s books before he’d moved in and provided space on his treasured bookshelf. A sticky note was pressed exactly at the center of the square lid, and as Quentin picked it up with a careful hand, a spelled sense picture washed over him: Eliot’s cologne of sharp, tangy cedar, the weight of a pen in elegant fingers, and the nervous excitement that comes with preparing a surprise gift. He savored the feeling as he read, Eliot’s inky scrawl centered and neat against the legal-pad-yellow:

_I wanted us to match, but I know  
you would’ve hated being a redshirt.  
Love you, Q. Happy Halloween,  
and 3 months to the day._  
♡
    
    
        
    
    _
    ) \
     . ' ` -- ` ' . 
    ~~~     /     ^   ^     \     ~~~
    \    \/\/\/    /
    ' ------ '

_Fuck him with a can opener,_ but it was hot in here. Eliot hadn’t realized how much heat usually escaped through the kitchen’s open doorway, but with the powerful atmospheric manipulation keeping the main room nice and gloomy, hours with the oven on full blast were turning the kitchen into a goddamn _sauna._

 _Soon,_ he reminded himself. Just a few more minutes and his crescent-moon croissants would be all done, he could clean up a bit and follow Margo to go get ready. A smile lifted his cheeks at the thought of Quentin probably putting on his own costume at that very moment. He’d — he’d like it. Presumably. Hopefully. He would.

And even if not, he’d definitely like what Eliot had planned for himself. They hadn’t talked specifically about many fantasies, but Q had let drop a few hints and Eliot, for all that his professors might disagree, took excellent notes.

The butterflies in his stomach got going as he added a tempered chocolate coating to the last pastry, wiping off the smears that somehow always made their way onto the rim of his serving dish, and deposited it into the only space remaining on the low coffee table outside.

A few students had already settled down on the couches, waiting for the fun to begin. A pair of psychic twins clapped as the croissant platter took its place next to the Magician’s Brew. Eliot inclined his head — _always be gracious to your subjects,_ said the little voice he had cultivated for such matters, but a much louder one was already chattering away in the form of mental pictures of Quentin. Before Eliot had thought much more about it, he’d stripped off his apron and left it crumpled on the kitchen countertop, and made a beeline for the stairs.

His footsteps must have been loud, or else Bambi could just sense his presence, because she opened the door to her room just as he was raising one hand to knock.

“Get in here, we’re gonna be late enough to our own party as it is,” she greeted him.

“Fucking Todd,” was the obvious response.

Margo was almost all the way dressed in a dark, ragged jacket over a bright blue button down and color-studded bow tie, well-tailored slacks and wicked black stilettos giving her a good six inches, her hair spelled an electric orange and curled within an inch of its lustrous life. The Mad Hatter from Alice in Wonderland — the Tim Burton version, naturally — suited her in a strangely aesthetic sort of way. Like if he’d decided to stop being a hatter and went to some kind of prestigious crime university instead. 

She took up position in front of the bathroom mirror, a series of skin paints laid out on the counter, and started scrolling her photos app for the reference. As Eliot passed her to strip by the shower and wet a washcloth, he caught a surprising number of selfies with Alice. Huh.

Clothes off, Eliot was reminded of just how _everywhere_ baking ingredients managed to get. _Not that Quentin seemed to mind,_ whispered a lick of heat along his spine as he dwelled on the memory and let anticipation spur him on.

A lukewarm scrub removed the caked-on dough and sticky chocolate from his forearms, and a fresh cloth under cold water helped lift the layer of sweat and lesser kitchen grime from the rest of his skin; much as it pained him to leave his clothes in a messy pile, they would have to come later. He left them on her tile floor, heading over to the bottom drawer of her dresser.

They’d been having an early 2000s movie night, the four of them, when Eliot first got the inspiration. Alice had gotten tipsy and louder than usual, bouncily demanding at 1 AM that they watch _Bring It On_ because “Eliza Dushku has a stupid beautiful face and it deserves to be on the screen come _onnn._ ” The drowsy weight of Quentin at Eliot’s side had been still and quiet throughout the movie, but he couldn’t help but notice the way he buried his face in Eliot’s shoulder when Margo had some choice commentary about the Toros uniform.

The idea was solidified a week or so later when he plopped down behind Quentin in a corner of the library to see not Reddit, AO3, _or_ that weird little cactus-growing game on his phone. Instead it was the tiktok of someone who, well, looked a fair amount like Eliot, for one, and two, was wearing a series of women’s business casual clothing. Quentin had closed the app but, with some gentle prodding, let Eliot see the rest, and explained with increasing fervor that _it’s just, going in the face of the gender binary, right? Like cis men wearing short skirts and heels but not, um — shaving or wearing makeup, is, is such a public rejection of the idea that you have to be all one way or the other, and I really, um, like,_ admire _that_ — 

So Eliot made like Reese’s and put two great tastes together, resulting in the magically tailored-to-perfection Toros uniform he slid carefully out of its place in Margo’s dresser. The skirt rode low on his hips and didn’t stop too far below them either, red-and-black top comfortably shaped to the gentle curve of his waist and broad shoulders. And Eliot could stand neither sneakers nor _white sneakers,_ so when he sat back on Margo’s bed, it was cherry-red high-top Chuck Taylors getting laced up to his ankles.

“Well aren’t you a tall glass of Cheerwine,” Bambi grinned at him from the bathroom mirror.

“While usually I would prefer to be a nice Cabernet,” a final tug on the laces and he stood up, giving her reflection a light-footed twirl on the way over, “I must admit the comparison has a certain,” oh _shit,_ “appeal,” his ass looked _fantastic_ in this skirt.

Eliot had worn skirts and short tops before, of course, but he’d never had a reason to go right for the jugular with a cheerleading uniform. Until now, and he had to say, it was about damn time. The crop top was nicely fitted with room to breathe, and that decorative inverted-V hem perfectly accentuated the plane of his stomach; the pleats on the skirt swished pleasingly whenever he moved.

It _fit._

It was very much not a surprise when Margo set down her makeup brush to gleefully slap him across the ass, then point a finger in his face. “Did I or did I not say you’d work it one hundred percent? Coldwater won’t last an hour downstairs.”

There were those butterflies again, making Eliot swallow a silly grin at the idea. “Careful, you’ll get my hopes up,” he scolded.

People would be starting to arrive in number now, his internal event-planning-clock informed him, and Quentin would probably be done getting ready soon. He wanted to make sure to leave once Q was already downstairs. There was an entrance to be made here.

“Nope,” Margo said, popping the p as she focused on applying white mascara. “That’s just a fact. I am fully expecting to be the sole host of this party for a little while.” She leaned away from the mirror to inspect her handiwork, sliding her gaze to meet Eliot’s with cheekily narrowed eyes. “But not too little, hm? I am in full support of showing our nerd an unhurried good time.”

Eliot drew a cross over his heart, batting his eyelashes innocently. Margo snorted.

He fussed with his hair while she finished painting red and blue around each eye, doing something creative with foundation and orange powder to her eyebrows, and contouring until she looked like a glamorous statue who could definitely kick your ass or anyone else’s, at any time. The gritty white coverall from the movie was naturally ignored — Bambi took artistic license, and Halloween was always an opportunity to look _better_ in an off-putting way, not _worse._

From down the hall, a door opened and shut with a distinctive creak that usually meant _home,_ and which for tonight meant _showtime._ Eliot felt his heartbeat pick up as Margo popped in her unearthly green-orange colored contacts, and settled the Hatter’s signature tophat over her bright curls with a flourish.

“Shall we?” she intoned playfully, holding out an elbow, and oh, Eliot loved her, loved that this was theirs.

“Of course we shall,” he answered, smoothing his skirt and stepping in to link arms.

Setting off down the hall towards the stairs felt _good._ Rubber soles under his weight on the hardwood floor, wrapped shoulder-to-toe in ruby red, arm in arm with his other half. The butterflies vacated his stomach, nervous energy released fluttering into the hall ahead like an entourage.

After all, this was their kingdom, and its prince was awaiting his arrival.

The magic sound system reached to the top of the stairs, and Eliot smiled as he started down right at the beginning of a song. Most of this playlist was for the mood, but this one was just for fun, and besides, Eliot never could resist some Danny Elfman; excitement danced under his skin as they entered the room to the tune of, _This is Halloween, Pumpkins scream in the dead of night._

Clusters of heads turned as they stepped down off the stairs. Eliot noted with pleasure that even totally sober, nothing looked quite _right,_ the lighting charms working wonderfully to make the uncanny valley the setting of this event. Several people waved and nodded as his gaze scanned the room, but he had already moved on, only one thing was important right now and that was finding —

Well, Spock, for now. And there he was, lounging against the wall by the pool table. Chatting up a pretty blonde in a mustard-hued uniform, TNG era — ah, an officer from the Enterprise, here from the future with an urgent mission, of course. Too bad he’d been waylaid by a dashing science officer he knows only from the history books. Probably ruining some far-off timeline at this very moment, but the danger was obviously worth it to be the one under that intent amber gaze, the one rushing off to get the handsome half-Vulcan a second drink. Eliot could relate.

(Okay, that wasn’t super technically what was happening. It was more statistically probable that this was another student and not a Starfleet officer, and he’d struck up a conversation with Quentin due to their apparent shared interest in Star Trek. You know, if Eliot wanted to be _boring_ about it.)

Eliot watched as his boyfriend raked a palmful of hair behind one illusion-lengthened ear (and Eliot knew A Lot about what got him hot but, mm, pointed ears and gold rank stripes at each wrist was a new one), Quentin’s gaze awkwardly following the TNG cosplayer across the room until it passed over Eliot and caught there. Like a leaf in a river’s eddy, or maybe more like a cat that flicks the leaf out of the water and pounces, pinning it to the ground.

He stood up off of the wall. Took one slow step, his eyes tracing down Eliot’s body, lines burning in their wake like a nice whiskey. Another step in the time it took him to get back up to Eliot’s face. And, oh, the _look_ in his eyes. There wasn’t a question there, but it made Eliot’s insides wanna answer with _Oh, fuck yes, anything._

Q crossed the room quickly after that, nearly running into Alice in his haste as she approached from a different direction. Waving a giggly hello to Eliot, she grabbed Margo’s arm and tugged towards a couch where Julia (as Sophie from Howl’s Moving Castle, with a long gray braid) and Kady and Penny (as. Themselves, apparently. Boring.) were trading pastries. Margo went, laughing, and oh shit, had they —? Alice was _Alice,_ as in, resident of Wonderland, currently with one arm tucked around the Hatter’s elbow, and that couldn’t be a coincidence.

But it was one Eliot would have to ponder later, because Quentin was here, looking like goddamned royalty in his bright blue Starfleet uniform, he was biting his lip and stopping not six inches in front of Eliot, he was taking the briefest of pauses before swaying in for a deep kiss.

They parted with a tiny, sweet-stinging pull of teeth on Eliot’s lip. A warm, spiced feeling that had been slowly gathering since they first made eye contact seemed to suddenly ignite, getting heady and dizzy and god, really fucking good, Quentin made him feel _so_ fucking good.

He opened his eyes a moment after he realized they were still closed, plum-colored fireworks lighting up the velvet black of his eyelids.

“Hi,” he said. Quentin hadn’t yet taken a step back, and he didn’t now.

“Hi,” Quentin said back, dimples turned up to eleven.

“That wasn’t very, um, Vulcan of you,” Eliot said, in a tone that he hoped was conveying his utmost appreciation of the fact. “So you like the uniform?”

“It’s perfect, El, really. I love it.”

“Good, I’m glad.” The corners of Eliot’s lips tipped up, and he rubbed his palms across Q’s wide shoulders, thumbing the smooth insignia under his left collarbone. It suited him.

“Uh-huh,” Quentin hummed. He tipped forward just barely, just enough to brush his lips against Eliot’s. “Like I love you.” And once more. “Now please tell me…”

He paused, a waver in his voice, and one hand came up to lightly caress Eliot’s hip, flattening broad and warm up against his stomach, making Eliot suck in a sharp breath as it moved upwards against the grain of the sparse hair there, and then Quentin was sliding his fingertips just barely under the hem of his top, looking up at him with intense, wanting eyes, “you won’t be offended if I say I kinda need us to go upstairs and get these clothes on the floor, like, right the fuck now.”
    
    
        
    
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Eliot tangled his fingers through his own curls, letting the sharp tug be a contrast to the hot, satisfying stretch of Quentin behind him. His muscles worked instinctively, curving to press harder against Quentin’s hips, allowing himself to relax into the sensation of being held, possessed, inside and out. Q was so solid, all slick warm skin and tensed muscle. Hot and cold pulsed everywhere their skin met, sweat dripping from the small of Eliot’s back, across the sensitive hollows of his neck, trailing down his thighs.

Quentin’s hands skated lightly along his spine and around the topography of his midriff, a rapt, unpredictable pattern that had Eliot shivering. Seemed like the shirt was doing it for him just as much as the actual fucking, since he’d said to keep it on, which Eliot was wholeheartedly choosing to take as a compliment.

“I think I, really need to do this more often,” Eliot panted. The hands on his back slid around to grab at his hips, holding him in place as Quentin slid his cock deeper inside with a low groan, and _fuck yeah,_ that was hot. He pressed the button again. “You’d like that? Want me to — _ah_ — dress up for you again?”

“Fuck, Eliot, yes, yeah, dress up for me,” Quentin got out, another delicious press and then his weight hot against Eliot’s back. Hips flush, skin to skin and skin to fabric, molding Eliot to the shape of him. One arm went around Eliot’s chest, keeping him close, and the other crossed low to wrap sturdily around his cock.

“ _Mm,_ I think,” breaking off in a gasp as Quentin got into a quick, steady rhythm, matching firm pulls of his fist with shallow thrusts, “I might, be amenable to that, _shit_ right there just stay there —” he moaned, loud, the angle suddenly perfect as Quentin brushed up against where he needed the pressure most. It was good, it was _so_ good, but he still ached for it, needed it —

“Harder.”

Quentin let out a breathy laugh against the back of his neck. “I dunno, this is already, pretty hard, I —”

Eliot huffed and shifted his weight, one hand grabbing blindly for a handful of Quentin’s hair, eliciting a stuttered moan. “Fuck off, and _fuck me harder_.”

Quentin complied with a pleased whine, rubbing slick and steady around Eliot’s cock and working his hips in deeper, a bruising, relentless drive that made Eliot gasp, then just sink in like he wanted to drown in it. He felt it everywhere, all-encompassing like the pounding rhythm had taken over his heartbeat. Eliot could just _live_ here, his mind fucked right out to sea, riptide carrying him away with each thrust of Q’s cock and deliciously aching sparks lighting up through his groin. But that tall wave barrelling towards him, free and wild and picking up momentum, once he saw it Eliot wanted nothing more than for it to sweep him up and take him all the way to the sun-warmed shore.

Q was on the way right alongside him, babbling his signature sexy nonsense ( _Jesus, El, you’re so — fucking — I’m, oh_ god _Eliot_ ) right up against Eliot’s neck, still pressed so close, still filling him up good and hard and endless.

Eliot should hold on and wait for him, probably. And he could do it, probably, except he couldn’t because Quentin let out a sob into his skin and _squeezed_ right under the head of his cock and Eliot felt the irresistible tug of the current as it enticed him to further depths, closer and closer to the surge of water towering above.

Guttural sounds slipped unchecked from his throat as the release built, thighs tensing, hips jerking, unable to uncross the wires in his brain between thrusting forwards into Quentin’s fist or grinding back against the curve of his cock and hips. He just knew he needed Quentin for this, needed more, and the sheets were soft as he panted against them, grabbing Quentin’s ass and holding it closecloseclose, like he could pull him in any deeper, like he wasn’t already coming undone with a shuddering groan and the entirety of Quentin’s length tight inside where he could clench down and _feel it._ The wave crashed down and swept him up, enveloped and shaky and breathless, and carried him safely to the shallows.

Warmth flowing throughout his body, a wide nothingness in his head like the popping bubbles of the last remaining sea foam. He relaxed his hold on Quentin’s ass, feeling a chill where Quentin was bowed over his back instead of pressed against it. The grip on his hips was bruise-tight and Quentin was still pressed in to the hilt, still moving against him only in tiny rocking motions, whimpering what after a second took shape as, “Can I —? Can I please? El, _please,_ I need, can—”

But the heat bubbling under Eliot’s skin was cooling to a gentle afterglow simmer, and in its wake came a sensitivity that was already starting to pitch towards a throbbing soreness. Q, bless him, had done it _hard._ He made a split second decision and carefully pulled off, gentling Quentin’s whine with a murmur: “Just a sec, sweetheart, I’ve got you.”

As soon as he was untangled from Quentin’s embrace, Eliot stripped off the shirt — a shame, but the sweatiness was starting to feel gross — pivoted and pressed him back onto the bed, swallowing his cock down in a smooth slide, and not for the first time feeling extremely grateful for hygiene magic. Quentin cried out with a sharp breath, and met Eliot’s gaze for only a second before his eyes slid shut, biting his lip and arching his back on a long moan.

Tongue working continuously along the velvet underside of Quentin’s cock, Eliot gently spread Quentin’s knees to get his hands up under his ass. So pretty, even just the firm, hot feel of it against his palms. He tugged, bringing Quentin’s hips off the bed, letting the tip of his cock into the back of his throat. Q’s moan cut off into a choking gasp of Eliot’s name, and his hands flew to the back of Eliot’s head as he sucked and pushed and pulled until he got the idea, fucking up into Eliot’s mouth on his own.

That pressure, on the back of Eliot’s head and neck, holding him in place while Quentin’s nicely thick cock thrust in as deep as he could go, quickly speeding up as he came right back to the edge. God, it was hot when Q got like this. Nonverbal, just rough, wet little noises and full-bodied thrusts. Grabbing onto Eliot and not letting go until he came. _Using_ him, letting him know he was something Quentin needed, that he trusted him utterly to know his own limits. If Eliot hadn’t just come this would be doing the fucking trick; instead his body just felt flushed and liquid and _wanted_ all over, and that was somehow just as good.

Quentin’s fingers were tightening in Eliot’s hair, the rhythm of his hips turning sloppy and uneven. His breath came loud in harsh pants, punctuated by those gorgeous sounds he couldn’t help but make when he was close, and finally with a sob that sounded almost pained he arched his hips high off the mattress and pulled Eliot down hard so that he was still, mouthing at Quentin’s base as he pulsed and came messy into his throat. A high, sharp taste that he swallowed easily enough, then he held Quentin in his mouth until the last of the aftershocks had rolled through his hips.

They collapsed onto the bed together, Quentin’s thigh damp and salty under Eliot’s cheek, comforter silk-smooth against his cooling skin. Eliot breathed deeply, god that sharp musk that hung in the air right after was _delectable,_ and hummed from low in his chest. Q laughed, breathless. “Holy fuck, that was, I mean…”

Pressing his lips to the delicate, trembling side of Quentin’s thigh, Eliot responded while trailing pretty kisses over his pretty hips — “Spectacular?” — stomach — “Amazing?” — chest, moving with a ticklish giggle — “Glorious?” — neck, tilted to expose more skin, so he settled there to suck a nice mark — “mmmajestic?” — and finally a long, slow, languorous press to Quentin’s mouth, loving the slide of Quentin’s tongue against his as he gently licked away the taste of his own spend, the way they felt warm and sated together after the desperation of a minute ago.

Breaking the kiss with a small sound of pleasure, Quentin looked up at Eliot and ran gentle fingertips along his forehead, brushing away a few unruly curls where sweat had slicked them to his forehead. “Uh-huh, well, I was just gonna say ‘so good,’ but um, I like yours better,” he said through a smile.

Goddamn. His voice was a little rough, his hair was everywhere. Lips wet and still flushed an unreal scarlet, and god those _eyes,_ steady liquid amber like an acorn, such a small thing that held so much life inside. Eliot could just sit here all day and watch Quentin watch him. If they didn’t have a soiree going on downstairs, of their own design, to which they were actively required to return, Eliot thought he might do just that.

“What?”

“Hm?” Eliot replied, tugged out of his reverie and entirely unapologetic.

“You said ‘goddamn,’” Quentin offered fondly, apparently unbothered by the low functioning power of Eliot’s post-orgasm brain.

“Did I? Oh well. My infatuation with you was just leaking, I guess.” Eliot tipped down to melt against his lips again, Quentin’s hands steadying on his cheek and the back of his neck, making him shiver.

“Oh —” Quentin said, right up against Eliot’s mouth. “And we are definitely dressing up more often.”

“Really? I wasn’t sure whether you enjoyed it.” Because he couldn’t resist teasing _just_ a little.

Quentin snorted, and _why was that so fucking attractive._ But then he said, “Oh, I’ll show you ‘enjoyed it,’ just wait till I find some of those heels you like,” and Eliot could have sworn he fainted, just for a moment there, because he couldn’t just _say_ shit like that. Good thing Quentin was flipping them over so he was on top, and Eliot could flop like a fish onto the mattress, wriggling to enjoy the way he could still feel the space Quentin had made for himself, inside. And it was even better that Quentin was smiling down and kissing him senseless, since he didn’t have a lot of sense at the moment anyway. Really, if he was being honest — and, in fact, he was — it was the best.

**Author's Note:**

> Credit for the little pumpkin scene marker friend is to jgs. Plus some costume refs! for:  
> [Quentin](https://www.yourprops.com/movieprops/original/yp_510ed870e898b2.26456551/Star-Trek-The-Original-Series-Spock-Calculator-3.jpg)  
> [Eliot](https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0289/9673/products/RCH_Cheerleading_Mock_up_1.png?v=1522056060)  
> [Margo](https://www.wired.com/images_blogs/underwire/2009/06/madhatter_1700.jpg)  
> [Alice](http://www.alice-in-wonderland.net/wp-content/uploads/alice_burton_large.jpg)  
> [Julia](https://vignette.wikia.nocookie.net/howlscastle/images/c/c1/Sophie_Hatter.jpeg/revision/latest?cb=20151222210402)  
> and [Kady](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/46/bb/71/46bb71d550f6cb411133c571ff272f84.jpg) and [Penny's](http://www.syfy.com/sites/syfy/files/Magicians_Blog_Arjun_Gupta.jpg) "costumes"


End file.
